


Things We Are

by orphan_account



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Anal Sex, Body Horror, Compromise, Gland Kink, M/M, Wing Kink, Wingfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-27
Updated: 2013-02-27
Packaged: 2017-12-03 20:32:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,044
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/702354
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><b>Summary:</b> Castiel and Dean finally come together, but when what a perfect moment for Dean suddenly involves a bigger leap than men to women, he tries his best for Cas' sake but finds himself horrified or at least intensely uncomfortable with Castiel's wings but, and for the sake of what they've started, Dean tries to find a way to make it work.<br/><b>Prompt:</b> Since there are so many fics out there where Cas' wings get Dean all hot and bothered I'd love to see the opposite of it. Dean is weirded out and maybe even distgusted by seeing bird-like wings come out of the back of someone otherwise human looking. [... More in Author's note.]</p>
            </blockquote>





	Things We Are

**Author's Note:**

> **A/N:** Written for a prompt on kink meme; anon wanted Dean not liking/ not being attracted to or even being horrified by Castiel’s wings. I wanted to write a story where they tried to muddle through it because things don’t always line up in the bedroom, even between two people that care. Dean still doesn’t like Castiel’s wings in a sexual sense, but what they do for Castiel he can learn to appreciate.  
>  **FULL Prompt:** Since there are so many fics out there where Cas' wings get Dean all hot and bothered I'd love to see the opposite of it. Dean is weirded out and maybe even distgusted by seeing bird-like wings come out of the back of someone otherwise human looking. It's a constant and unwelcome reminder that Cas isn't human,that Cas doesn't really look like this but like some weird mixture of animals,a reminder that technically what he's really fucking is the body of a dead guy. Also the wings are just impractical in small rooms or the Impala. Not to mention that Dean still doesn't fully trust that seeing them won't burn out his eyes at some point. Cas on the other hand is incredibly proud of his wings,was convinced that Dean would find them highly arousing and also happy that Dean sees at least part of the "real" him and that he can share this with him. So Dean just tries to soldier through.

Dean was breathing hard through his nose, mouth pressed against Castiel’s throat. Finally it was happening, a gorgeous culmination to what felt like a lifetime of tension, of tentative want. He had stubble burn on his chin, lips red-plumped and, god, he wanted his hands everywhere. It wasn’t just another warm body in the night, it was important, life-changing, an effervescent failure of rationality and self. Castiel made the most beautiful, barely-there groan and he smelled good, deep, raw. He husked out Dean’s name, begged with the errant curve of a hip, the untanned skin of his belly. Dean undressed him too quickly, undressed himself and pressed skin to skin, kissed like he would never have another chance. Hand spidering up Castiel’s side and trailing across his ribs Dean spread Castiel’s legs with an insistent knee and was surprised when gently but purposely, Castiel pushed him away.

“Lemme guess,” Dean ignored the pinch in his throat, “Not tonight, huh?”

It figured. Some heaven hang-up, some good and moral reason why they shouldn’t let it happen or couldn’t. Castiel’s face was flushed, his pupils dilated and his mouth still shiny with Dean’s spit. Of course he’d gotten his hopes up, let himself think that he was going to sink in deep, find center.

Dean watched as Castiel said nothing but crawled forward, dropped onto his hands and knees. His back arched into an unnatural bow, sweat dripping down his spine. The air hissed immaterially, felt like wind did without the air moving at all, and Dean scrambled off the bed. Castiel was trembling, shaking and Dean asked the inevitably stupid question, “Are you okay? Cas, what’s-”

Wings, big and brown, were unfurling from nothingness and Castiel spread his legs a little wider, forced his head to the mattress as they stretched to span. Dean swallowed, suddenly uncomfortable as low, and in a tone that was barely perceivable, Castiel moaned. He flapped twice and curled his wings forward exposing the gradiated bump where flesh met feather. He knew he must look gorgeous to Dean, displayed like that, glands bare and an early leak of oil trickling down his spine. His wings were robust and powerful, well groomed for all they were an atypical size and color. On his knees and presenting he could only imagine how Dean felt watching them, and it gave him a selfish thrill.

"Uh, wow..." Dean could feel his erection flag.

That wasn’t how it was supposed to go! He was supposed to slide over Castiel’s body, rut into it as it was, as if he were a man. That was the big step, women to men and all for what Castiel meant to him, but the ice-bucket realization was the visual. He wasn’t a man, never was, never would be. He looked like one, walked and talked like one, but he was light and energy and animal effigy. Swallowing, Dean tried to ignore how the wing joint jutting from underneath his shoulder blades turned his stomach.

It was still Castiel, the real Cas, and that should mean something, he knew it should.

Castiel didn’t seem to notice Dean’s hesitation or if he did, assumed it awe. Letting a full-body shiver run from wing base to ridge, Castiel stretched and gently pushed the stale motel air around the room was an unguarded flap. His glands were dripping now and he knew Dean could smell it, would be overcome by the pheromonious musk, want to touch him. His were virgin feathers, he had never displayed before but could only hope that he was doing it right. Angels were soldiers, yes, but in every sexual sense perfect hedonists.

"Dean." His voice was low and gravelly, "Touch me."

"Uh, yeah."

Dean slid in behind him, careful not to let the quivering feathers brush against his skin. He wasn’t entirely convinced they wouldn’t singe. He was staring at an angel’s true form or at least a piece of it and everything he had ever learned about angels to point was that that was dangerous. Dean tried to refocus and ignore the smell filling the motel room, he couldn’t place it but it smelled a bit like wet dirt and something else unpleasantly pungent. Whatever it was, he thought, it wasn’t a human smell.

Dean braced his hands on Castiel’s hips and if he closed his eyes and couldn’t see his wings, it might be easier. Sliding his hand from the curve of Castiel’s ass up his side he felt something glossy-warm on the pads of his fingers and froze, "Why are you wet?"

Castiel made a low and desperate sound in the back of his throat. Angels didn’t talk dirty, their glands were intimate and however often viewed or used weren’t talked about. _Why are you wet_ , rolling so brazenly off of Dean’s tongue. Dean knew he was soaking wet, leaking for him and knowing that he knew, hearing him say it, it was the most gorgeous kind of original sin.

"My glands," He husked, “If you want, touch them.”

Dean didn’t want. He wanted to get as much space between them as humanly possible, he wasn’t ready for this kind of intimacy, was barely ready for the last. Castiel was trying to make love to him the way an angel would and he was going to have to take a deep breath and try not to think, try to make his way through because if he ruined it now he ruined everything. Following the glistening trail up Castiel’s back to the raised indents on either side of his wing joints and erection still flagging, he leaned closer, rocked himself against the soft skin of his testes, slid just barely between his cheeks.

If he could only imagine that wetness was something else, spunk, soap, massage oil. Dean paused, steeling himself. That’s right, he was just giving Castiel a massage and swirling a thumb with barely-there pressure over his glands, he palmed the underlying muscle and started to relax. Castiel’s tight ass was creating a delicious kind of friction against his cockhead and ignoring everything else, it still felt good. If he turned Castiel around, he thought, dragged him into his lap they would be slotted cock to cock and his wings would be safely out of the way. More than that, if he maneuvered it right, he wouldn’t have to touch them.

 “Pretty as the picture is, Cas,” Dean whispered in his ear, “I want you to turn over.”

Castiel hesitated, confused. He was spread wide and dripping, Dean could run his fingers through the mess of his oil, lick it up, lube him with it, shove into and take him. It was the most vulnerable position an angel could be in, the most passionate. For whatever reason, Dean didn’t want him that way. He frowned, maybe he had done something wrong. It wasn’t the position; he’d watched Dean have sex that way before. His display was as it should be, plumage stretched to span, quivering anticipatorily and he could feel the wetted pattern of his oil, ripe and memorably musty. Not sure if he was hurt or disappointed and wingtips flaring reflexively, Castiel turned around.

Relieved, Dean pulled him close, kissed his neck and his earlobe and painted a dozen more rough kisses across his cheek before kissing into his mouth. It was fierce, passionate and hands tangled in that dark mess of unruly hair, he forgot about everything else. At least, until he could feel the prickle of Castiel’s brittle primaries crowding into him. Castiel was adaptable enough, if Dean wanted him face to face he could try and moreover, Dean was trying to be intimate, at least in the way that human lovers did. It was a strange pull on his muscles but it didn’t ache unpleasantly as he strained to touch. Hugging Dean tighter, burying him close, Castiel shifted his hips. His skin felt hot all over and rubbing himself on Dean like a slutted thing he wanted more touch, more sensation.

Desperately, Dean was trying not to let on. He was uncomfortable, Castiel was touching him with his wings, rubbing them against his back and sides. Horrified, Dean realized the warm-wet feeling trickling down his thigh was oil from where it had followed the dip of Castiel’s spine. Castiel was sliding up and down in Dean’s lap, squirming, not sure how to angle but desperate to feel something inside. It was a strange kind of phantom ache and he needed Dean, needed to be filled, needed Dean to touch him.

Frustrated that he didn’t understand, Castiel took his hands and guided them back to his wing joints and if he’d missed every other subtly hidden sign, he couldn’t miss the visible wince.

Dean wasn’t hard anymore.

“What-”

“It’s nothing, I’m just…” What could he even say? Castiel was looking at him with such and abused expression it made his heart ache.

“I’m sorry, Dean.”

“What?”

“I know they’re…” He hesitated, almost apologetic. “Not large, and the color is unusual.”

Dean shook his head, that wasn’t the problem at all and when he looked guilty over Castiel’s shoulder he hated himself for the quiet admission he heard.

“Oh. I understand.”

It offended more than Castiel thought it should and he was both angry and disappointed. He was an angel and still, he sat dejectedly on the edge of the bed, doubting himself over something as frivolously human as sex appeal. Clear and undeniable proof-positive that Dean wasn’t interested in what he was as a whole, that the body he wanted belonged to someone else. The most intimate part of him, the only part he could ever physically manifest or feasibly share, and Dean was disgusted by it. They weren’t going to make love because Dean couldn’t, not with what he was.

Everything that he had ignored, all the doubt and all his wasted better judgement. He had refused to acknowledge everything that had warned prior, and all for that single, perfect moment they would never share. Heartache mocking him from the inside, Castiel stood and reached for his pants. It only seemed fitting that he redress like a man because his was a human shame. Wings made invisible, nothing remained but an earthen smell permeating the room.

“I’m sorry I’m not a man, Dean.” Pants first, then socks.

“Cas, stop. Just, wait.”

“And why wouldn’t I go?” Venom, because it hid the hurt.

“Cas…” Dean dragged a hand down his face, “I don’t turn on a dime, okay? So, fine. You’ve got wings and I’m sure they’re- they’re _nice_ , but I just-”

“Just what?”

“I’m a guy, okay? Only thing I’ve ever seen with wings are friggin’ birds and you think the whole body of a dude thing threw me? You know how many years it took for me to deal with that, Cas? All of them!”

“Dean-”

“And I was trying not to be-”

“Disgusted.”

“Yes, okay?” Dean heaved, “Yes.”

“Why?”

“Because I wasn’t fucking ready for that!”

“Why?” Castiel didn’t put his shoes on, waiting for the answer. “You don’t like them, clearly. Why?”

“I don’t know.”

“Could you try?”

“What?”

Castiel stood and Dean felt the same crackle in the air as before as his wings rematerialized. Turning he sat on the edge of the bed and looked over his shoulder. “I just want you to try, Dean.”

Dean hesitated but he owed him that much, didn’t he? So, without the burden of sex he kneed himself closer and sat staring at Castiel’s back. He didn’t like it but less the force of intimacy, he didn’t find them as alien or as intimidating. More than anything, he thought, it had been the shock of no warning.

“Will you touch them?” Dean swallowed, yeah he would.

“Where you’re touching, just below the wing joint, do you know what the bone underneath is called?”

“No.”

“The dextraorbital palette. In a bird, the wing replaces the arm and is connected directly to the scapula. In this body, the underlying bone structure is freely rotational.” Castiel shifted his wings so Dean could feel the glide underneath his hand, “The muscles you feel are called subdominal-arial deltoids and ridge tendons, they control movement.”

“Yeah…” Less intimidating when he knew what everything was, when it wasn’t strange or foreign.

“If you move your hand higher,” Dean did, “Those are my glands. They are walnut sized beneath the surface and typically secrete a thicker oil, to comb through and maintain my feathers. When I’m-" A small pause, "-Aroused, the oil is thinner and primarily composed of a pheromone-rich base. Emperimatatious fluate, or translated, Fluid of Imperials and more commonly, the Oil of Kings.”

“The smell?”

“Unique to every angel in this form, my mark.”

“Okay.” Dean ran a thumb gently over the surface and didn’t miss the way Castiel shivered, “And?”

“The most sensitive areas are at the joints near the muscle base and the glands. I have no feeling in my feathers.” Castiel tried not to squirm when Dean pressed a little more firmly, “I can’t fly.”

“Really?” He hadn’t known that.

“An angel’s wings are a representation, gravity only pertains to us in this form. Realistically, you can think of them as something defensive, invisible or not.”

Dean trailed his hand higher, the feathers closest to his skin were soft.

“I’ve shielded you with them, times we’ve fought together.” Castiel flexed slowly, “There’s enough power in one of my wings to deflect a blow or if circumstance requires, render a man unconscious.”

“Angel juice?”

“No, just power.” Castiel beat his wings again, “The power is in the muscle, in the control.”

Dean felt his cock twitch. “Yeah?”

“On my hands and knees, the way I was…” Castiel’s voice dropped, “It gives you command.”

“What?”

“If you grip the wing base, pull it close, the muscles weren’t designed for sideways movement. I can’t break free, I can’t move them. Like that and held by you, all that power means nothing.”

“So you were…”

“Submitting, Dean.”

“Shit, Cas.”

Dean was hard again, and as much as he wasn’t aroused by the imagery of Castiel’s wings he was by the thought of the strength of them, iron-hard muscle and sinew, bone. Not inhuman strength but inhuman invulnerability and that he’d presented his only weakness to Dean, invited him to exploit it and that was intimacy. In a way he couldn’t fully understand, granted, but could at least appreciate. Leaning into Castiel’s back he let him feel the slide of his blood-thick cock and kissed the raised hairs on his neck, breathed hotly into his ear. After all this time, all this waiting and if he couldn’t have one more chance what was it all for? Rut, slide, skin on skin and Castiel’s gorgeously hitched breath so quietly saying we’ll try again.

“Sometimes,” Castiel hazarded, “Sometimes I’ll keep them hidden, if you’d prefer.”

“No, it’s okay.” Dean was sliding closer, “Just, just keep talking.”

“What?”

“Tell me what happens when I do-” Dean fisted the joints, “This.”

God, the feeling of his wings being forced together was the perfect kind of hurt and his heart sped up, his breathing laboured. Adrenaline and need was sloshing in his abdomen and he was begging so quietly because for all he’d never been used that way, it was ingrained in the collective conscious.

“Cas- talk, tell me.” Dean needed it, he could do it if he kept talking.

“It feels-” What to say but the truth, “It hurts.”

“What?”

“I want it to hurt.” He took a breath, “I want to feel the stretch, it burns when you force them. Force them Dean, closer. I want them to touch, please.”

“Yeah, yeah okay.” Ignoring the impulse reaction to avoid the mess of oil closest to his skin and with a hand on each joint, Dean pulled his wings together. It wasn’t a fluid motion but a hard-jerk and Castiel made a broken noise, hips fucking the air because he needed more, needed friction, needed Dean.

“Dean-”

“Get on your knees.”

He didn’t say yes, but nodded.

“We need lube or-”

“Use me- mine, if you…” Castiel was breathing hard, “Please?”

That was the ticket, the begging. Dean could do it if he knew how badly Castiel wanted it, how much it turned him on. As long as he knew that, it would still be good between them. Just take it day by day, like a weird kink, some odd bedroom quirk. Keep talking, Cas. I need you to tell me.

Dean could barely hold both wing joints in one hand but he managed it, raked a free-hand finger through the oil and if he thought about the texture, it was like a silky silicon base. Something he’d bought to use, to stretch open Castiel’s pristine little ass and slide inside. Hard-cock fuck and he’d take it deep, yeah just like that, pretty boy. Swirling his finger against the pucker he could feel Castiel twitch and shake and on reflex, he pulled harder. The noise he made was sinful, animal, and Dean finger-fucked him slow, one to tease, two for the burn and by the time he hit three Castiel was a shaking mess.

Position, push and suddenly he was inside, grabbing Castiel’s wing joints so hard it had to bruise.

“Cas-”

“Dean- hngh, Dean, Dean please!”

“Yeah, yeah fuck- _fuck!_ ”

Castiel’s body was so goddamn tight and gone were the shades of a solider and replaced was some desperate, writhing extension of self. Dean closed his eyes and he could feel his wings beating but it was secondary to both blood-pump and heart-beat. Tighter, harder, Jesus fuck it was Cas! That sudden realization, that punch-in-the-gut of knowing that it was him, them, slick and skin and grace and man, animal, angel, nothing but the whiteout blur of sex and soul. Dean came hard, falling backward and with an iron grip he dragged Castiel with him, watched him shoot creamy white on the floor, then the bed and finally his belly.

Sweating and sated, Dean leaned into him and kissed his back. The oil was slick on his lips, tasted like nothing and still riding the aftershock if his stomach squirmed, it bothered him but, for all it did, not really.

 


End file.
